“His name is Grady,” Vera said with a glare.
He halted and, after a pause, stiffly nodded. “Thank you. Like Grady, yes. His father told me that he’d always been naturally inclined to woodworking. Of course, it’s not evidential proof, but the correlation between that and the manifestation of his power makes me wonder.”
Lancelot nudged Gawain with an elbow and gave his most winning smile. “You think I’ve got some fantastic power lying in wait?”
Gawain cast his eyes upward as he considered it. “Mm. Magic is clever, and I believe it deliberately hides. If you did have a gift, we’d actually make it far less likely to appear by telling you about it. Later life magic most commonly breaks via the necessity of a disaster.”
“There you have it,” Lancelot said. “My life has been in dire peril somewhere in the realm of hundreds of times, so if my incredible secret gift didn’t break during any of those instances, I’m fairly certain it doesn’t exist.”
“Seems about as likely as the original gifts’ existence,” Gawain admitted. “That’s to say; highly unlikely.”
“What are the original gifts?” Matilda asked. She leaned forward intently.
“Rumors, mostly. They’re the powers that have been in myths and stories all across the world. One tells of the power to bring the dead back to life, another invincibility, and there are many different versions of the gift of immortality, the fountain of youth. In the Greek stories, it’s ambrosia—”
Vera perked up as the threads connected. “The Holy Grail?”
Gawain turned to her, his sallow eyes suspicious. “How have you heard about that?”
Vera picked at the tabletop with her fingernail to stall for time. “They mentioned it at the monastery.” Ah. Even with Gawain aware of her memory loss, she had to be careful not to betray the time travel bit. She wasn’t sure how long her go-to excuse of “the monastery” would hold for all the things she shouldn’t know.
Gawain held his stare on Vera.
“What’s the Holy Grail?” Lancelot asked. Percival and Matilda were intrigued as well.
That answered one question. Arthur nor his knights had their sights on the grail. That part of the legend had to be false.
After a pause that felt longer to Vera than it was, Gawain answered. “It’s rumored to be the cup Jesus of Nazareth used in his last meal and that caught his blood as he died on the cross. It’s said to contain such gifts of immortality to those who drink from it, like all the other cultures’ stories. Same ends—different magical mechanisms to achieve them.”
“So, the item gives the power? You don’t even have to have the gift to receive it?” Matilda asked.
“That’s the myth,” Gawain said. “But there’s no logical truth behind it.”
“How can you be sure?” Percival said. “If so many people all over the world have come up with the same thing, maybe there’s something to it.”
“What do all people who live have in common?” Gawain asked. He waited, like a teacher hoping his pupils would rise to the occasion. When they didn’t, he forged on. “We’re all afraid of dying. That’s what frightened people do. They make up stories that make them feel better. In this case, humanity came up with a story of magic that can alleviate our biggest fear. It’s an appealing prospect to believe in, especially when times grow dark.
“Even the council of mages has been caught up in that thinking. But unless we have actual, concrete answers, magic as we know it is doomed. I’ve not gained much popularity by saying it, but someone has to address the situation honestly. Magic’s dying out. If it continues to dissipate at this rate, it will have completely disappeared from humanity within two generations. I’m not entirely certain the world can even survive without it.”
Vera shifted in her seat, at a loss for how her life in the future made sense in all of this. Lancelot watched her keenly, chin propped up on his hand, and raised his eyebrows when she met his eye.
“There’s a sect of mages who believe that the original gifts are our key to saving things.” Despite the topic’s gravity, Gawain’s voice remained dry. “They’re as deluded as whoever came up with the notion of original gifts in the first place. The notion that there’s a power out there that we might find and use to fix things in a markedly bleak situation is soothing. It’s also a farce.”
“So … that’s it?” Matilda asked. “We’re doomed?”
They stared at him in the heavy silence that followed, only broken when Percival let out a low whistle. “Sheesh, Gawain,” he said with a disbelieving laugh, “You’re a real riot at a party, aren’t you?”
“It might be hard to believe,” Gawain murmured, “but I haven’t been invited to many parties.”
They weren’t sure if he was joking until he looked up from his drink, and his sullen face bore a hesitant grin.
“A joke!” Lancelot yelled as he threw his hands in the air. They laughed and offered a toast to Gawain’s efforts at party conversation, an unofficial welcome to his presence among them. Vera wasn’t entirely sold on him after his theories rattled the purpose of her existence. But if Lancelot had made a friend of Gawain, that would be enough to call the man at least tolerable for the time being.
This last toast left many of their cups empty. Vera jumped up and began collecting their tankard handles between her fingers with the particular skill of a woman who’d waited tables since she was seventeen.
“Absolutely not!” Matilda reached to try to grab the cups, but Vera stubbornly pulled them away. “You are not going to serve us!”
“Rock, paper, scissors for it?” Vera asked.
